


Chase the Tear

by FourCatProductions



Series: Fool's Gold [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Begging, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, Humiliation, M/M, Unwilling Arousal, borderline non-con, seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-18 01:34:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5893006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCatProductions/pseuds/FourCatProductions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erikur expects a simple resolution to a simple request.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chase the Tear

**Author's Note:**

> There are basically no stories featuring Erikur either on here or the SKM, and with good reason - he's the worst. But then I had this idea that wouldn't leave me alone, and, well... this happened.
> 
> This story is borderline non-con/extremely dubious consent, so if that kind of thing is bothersome or triggering to you in any way, please skip this one.
> 
> (Title is from a song by Portishead.)

"I thought I asked Delvin to send me his best!"

"Yes. This is why he sends Dharmash."

The Khajiit remains irritatingly unruffled, insult or no. He's big, this cat, all scars and sinew, covered from head to toe in fur the color of oil, with two copper rings dangling smartly from each pointed ear. He's hard to see too, clad in ragtag armor and half-hidden by dappled shadows, and if Erikur didn't know better, he'd think he was talking to the garden wall. They hadn't gotten off to a good start. The Khajiit had appeared without warning, ten minutes late to their appointment, and startled Erikur so badly that he'd only just stopped shaking. Not that he'd admit it. 

They'd since put a respectable amount of distance between them, but it still doesn't seem like enough. Mostly, it's the eyes that have him so unsettled - two flat, pale discs like chips of grey ice that bore into him unblinkingly - but he is a Thane and a man of means, not so easily cowed by some common thief.

He draws himself up to his full height and scoffs. "That remains to be seen."

"As you say. The details of the job, if you please," the cat (he refuses to think of him as Dharmash, or whatever ridiculous name he'd called himself) prompts. There's a definite note of condescension in that gravelly voice, damn him.

Erikur's hands twitch into fists briefly before he takes a deep breath and smooths them out against his robes. He'll allow himself to entertain thoughts of having the wretch arrested later on, see if he's more humble after a night in irons, but there really isn't time to waste, and Volf is the more important target. For now, anyway. He fills the thief in.

"Do you think you can handle that?" He puts a little extra emphasis in his sneer, just to remind them both who's (supposed to be) in charge.

The Khajiit cocks his head - at least, Erikur thinks he cocks his head, he senses the movement more than sees it with the moon shrouded as it is - and makes a raspy sound deep in his chest. It takes Erikur a moment to realize that he's laughing.

"Do not worry. This one will settle your petty squabble for you. Provided you uphold your end of the bargain, Thane." Dharmash's voice fairly _drips_ with mockery, but he's gone before Erikur has time to form a sufficiently cutting retort. No noise, no fanfare, just melts away into the darkness, leaving him alone behind the Blue Palace with his rancor.

When the coast is clear, he heads home, not because he's tired, but simply because it won't do to have anyone catch him skulking about in the early hours of the morning.

He doesn't sleep much these days.

On this particular night, however, as he tosses and turns on his too-soft mattress, a sort of creeping dread sets in. He tries to tell himself that it's nothing new - broken pacts and under-the-table dealings are par for the course, unavoidable obstacles in the endless pursuit of gold, but they don't lend themselves to an easy slumber.

It's not that, though, and he knows it. It's that damn cat. From the moment he first arrived in the garden, hot breath ghosting across Erikur's cheek as he materialized from the ether, invading Erikur's space as he pleased, every inch of him radiating untroubled arrogance, it had been made abundantly clear that Erikur's title means absolutely nothing to him (and doesn't that just make Erikur itch with rage and spite). And yes, the cat's attitude towards the standing he's worked so hard to gain makes him exceedingly uneasy, but it's not that, either, not completely.

It had been in the tilt of his head as he studied Erikur's movements, in the eerie light of those wintry eyes and the way he bared his fangs in what might have passed for a smile under different circumstances. Erikur has been hunting enough times to recognize the way predators react to their prey. His skin tightens at the thought. _This_ is Mallory's best? What in Oblivion is the Guild coming to? No wonder they need his help.

 _It doesn't matter_ , he tells himself, more confidently than he feels. Dharmash will complete the job (because Delvin knows better than to waste his time), and Erikur will send him back to his filthy compatriots with his compliments, far far away from Solitude, and that will be that. He's a professional. He's dealt with worse in the course of building his empire, and if he has to grit his teeth and bear one last interaction with the creature, then so be it. After all, he's a businessman first and foremost, and can't afford to discriminate. Underworld connections are valuable, and no one's gold is too bloody in the grand scheme of things.

 _It's just business_.

 

Dharmash is as good as his word. Erikur has barely sat down to breakfast when he hears the news of Captain Volf's arrest, and is instantly filled with a curious mixture of relief and dread. He's pleased that his trust in the Guild's renewed reputation wasn't in vain, but the thought of interacting with the cat again has his stomach so tightly knotted that he can barely choke down more than a few bites. _Just show up so we can get it over with, why don't you?_ But the thief remains absent, almost as if he knows how badly Erikur wants to get their last scheduled interaction out of the way and has decided to prolong things for his own twisted amusement.

After another three hours of uneventful silence, Erikur decides to forgo an appearance at the palace today - the last thing he needs is to ambushed there, of all places, and he's so on edge that a day off might be in order anyway. He has a bit of a laugh when Melaran pokes his head in to see why Erikur isn't dressed yet and gets pelted with a half-full tankard of mead for his troubles, but even that minor amusement soon fades. Somewhere around the fourth hour, he begins mentally measuring his bedroom for a new fur rug.

The cat shows up not long after (he thinks - he stopped keeping track of the time eventually). One minute, the house is silent, and the next, a silky voice purrs low in his ear, "This one has come for his reward."

It takes everything in him not to fly out of the chair he's sitting in and put an entire room's worth of distance between them. Instead, he curls his fingers around the wooden arms and puts the full force of his displeasure behind his reply.

"Yes, I heard. And I presume you have a good reason for making me wait well into the afternoon before you decided to grace me with your presence?"

"Dharmash has many appointments to keep, not just those with impatient Nords." The cat is remorseless. Had he not been a filthy beast, Erikur might have almost admired him. "Do you pledge your support to this one's Guild, as promised?"

"Yes, yes." He waves his hand airily. "And a... small token for your efforts. The spell tome on the table and the coinpurse next to it. Now, take them and leave me be. I have other business of my own to attend to, you know."

A thick, stifling silence follows, and he's certain that he's finally free, but when he glances over his shoulder, he's perturbed to see Dharmash still standing at the dining room table, one wickedly curved claw tracing the pattern on the front of the leather-bound book. With an ill-concealed growl, he gets to his feet. "What is it going to take to get rid of you?"

"This is a pittance. Not a reward." Dharmash's gaze flicks up, and if he thought it was cold before, it's positively frigid now. "A man with a house like this can afford to be more generous than most, can he not?"

"Your _true_ reward is my unflagging support in re-opening doors for your Guild here in Solitude," Erikur snaps. "Anything else is a bonus." The cat doesn't move an inch, just stares at him with those piercing eyes, lip curling upwards to flash the tips of his fangs. "Now, take what I have chosen to give you and _get out_ of my house, or I - "

Dharmash is terrifyingly fast. There's no time to finish his sentence, to react, to do anything other than roar with surprised outrage as he closes the distance between them, twists Erikur's arm up behind his back and slams him down onto the table, chest-first. Erikur struggles wildly, but it's like fighting a statue, or a bear trap; there's no give to that immovable weight pinning him in place. Dharmash's other hand slides into his hair and yanks his head up, claws pricking his scalp, and he groans without meaning to.

"If you will not give this one his reward, then Khajiit will take something else he wants," Dharmash informs him, impossibly calm. Erikur stills, a sickening sensation blooming deep in the pit of his stomach. _Surely he can't mean..._ A rough tongue laps at his earlobe, making him flinch. "Proper payment. Honor among thieves, Thane."

"Get away from me," Erikur snarls, and the only thing that stops him from trying to break free once more is the claws digging into the soft flesh of his wrist, reminding him of his vulnerable position. He's alone in his house with someone seemingly hell-bent on doing... _something_ to him, and there's no one within earshot to come to his rescue. He's beginning to regret chucking his drink at Melaran earlier. "Fine, I'll double your coin. Triple it, even! Just let me go so we can sort this out."

"Dharmash does not think so." The tongue drags across the back of his neck, and he shudders involuntarily ( _it's from disgust, only disgust_ ). "Dharmash has found something he would like better than coin this time around."

Erikur really does try to struggle this time, kicking back at his captor's shins, but is quickly subdued by claws digging into him and the press of fangs against the side of his neck. "Your choices are this. You can struggle, or you can submit. If you struggle... Dharmash makes no guarantees. If you submit, Dharmash will make sure that this is enjoyed by all." The tips of those sharp, white fangs trace an impossibly delicate line along his pulse point. "What say you, Thane?"

Erikur does not remember the last time he was on the receiving end of an impossible choice. He is the one who poses both the question and the answer, who always comes out on top, whether by guile or by force.

_When this is over,_ he vows, _I will skin you myself._

The only thing that keeps him from trying to scramble for the nearest blunt object to bash Dharmash's skull in is the constant reminder of those teeth and claws as they make short work of his clothes, leaving him in his smalls and little else. Under different circumstances, it might have been welcome - Dharmash is surprisingly adept at only using the very ends and just the right amount of pressure, trailing along Erikur's back and sides, probing for weak spots and making him squirm and twitch despite himself.

"You are pleasant to look at when you are not speaking," he informs Erikur at one point. He's languidly grinding his hips, holding Erikur in place while he rocks against him. "Perhaps we will have to revisit this arrangement another day." Whatever scathing retort Erikur musters up is lost as Dharmash leans down and licks a long, hot stripe up his spine, eliciting a soft curse in its place. "This one thinks you do not hate this as much as you would claim." His hand snakes down between Erikur's thighs, cupping him, and to his growing horror, Erikur realizes that he's at least half-hard.

_No._ This can't be happening. He is _not_ even remotely aroused by the ministrations of the _thing_ currently molesting him, no matter how long it's been since he's had any kind of physical contact, no matter what his traitor body thinks; he will _not_ give in to this. He hisses and tries to pull away, but only succeeds in both pressing his arse more firmly against Dharmash and giving him more access to his front. Dharmash snickers and rubs his thumb across the blunt head of Erikur's cock, still not touching him beneath the loincloth. "Tell me, Thane. How long has it been since you felt the touch of another?"

"Fuck you!"

This is met with more laughter. "This one plans to do as you ask." He bites lightly at Erikur's shoulder, forestalling further protest. "Khajiit thinks it has been quite a long while. You are... responsive." The word rolls over him in a long, sinuous wave, punctuated with another nibble and a long, firm stroke of his cock that has him squirming with a mixture of lust and revulsion.

He's acutely aware of everything now: the dim winter sunlight filtering in through the windows, casting shadows over the scene; the soft fur of his captor's muzzle and hands, in stark contrast to the rest of him; the scents of snow and pine and blood, rough leather and dirt, the acrid tang of his own sweat and fear.

"If you don't - " He can barely choke the words out, his mouth is so dry, "If you don't - "

"The lesson is this," Dharmash whispers. "There are some situations that one cannot buy out of. Where all the gold in the world is not enough to save you." He rubs the thumb of his free hand across Erikur's lower lip, a mockery of a lover's caress. "Take, for instance, your fair young Jarl."

It takes Erikur a moment. "Elisif?"

"There was a murder attempt not even three moons ago. Had her guards not been more attentive, she would have perished. Her gold meant nothing in those moments." He cocks his head. "And what of you? Are you disappointed that she still lives? Or will you simply try again at another time?"

It's like being plunged underwater, the way the air is forced from his lungs with a jolt. "H - how... "

"Dharmash sees thing sometimes," he says, and palms Erikur's cock once more, pushing him relentlessly towards full hardness. "A valuable ability in this one's line of work."

"You - I can't - "

"No more talking." His jaw is gripped painfully, forcing his head up and cutting off any further attempts at speech. "Normally, Dharmash would give you something more interesting to do with your mouth, but I do not trust you not to bite."

He hooks the claws of his other hand under the straps of Erikur's smalls and shreds them with a single, deft movement. He's left naked, and all the more exposed for the fact that his captor is still fully clothed. He shouldn't be hard, but he is, and achingly so now. _This is sick. Wrong._ An involuntary noise escapes him when the hand wrapped around him withdraws, something that sounds suspiciously like a whimper, and he bites his lower lip so hard he nearly draws blood.

He hears some rustling behind him, then the sound of a bottle being uncorked. This time, the hand that grips him is slick and warm, and he tries to hold out but _fuck him,_ does it feel incredible, and he can't quite stop his hips from thrusting in response. He learns quickly, courtesy of claws scoring his flank, that he's not allowed to thrust, or indeed, move at all. He's simply to lay there and take what he's given, and want to want it or not, he can't seem to stop the noises from bubbling up in his throat either.

Dharmash is clearly enjoying taking his time, too - he pumps Erikur's cock with long, tortuously slow strokes, each movement somehow both impersonal and obscenely intimate. _He's not going to let you come_ , some dark corner of his mind murmurs. _He's going to take what he wants and leave you like this._

He throbs at the thought, and hates himself all the more for it.

"When this is - _gods_ \- when it's over, I'm going to ..."

"Kill me?" Dharmash supplies, sounding amused, and Erikur is forced to admit that perhaps death threats are futile in his current state. Dharmash doesn't even bother continuing with the verbal taunts, just jerks him off with an hot, oil-slick hand until he's trembling with the effort of holding still.

The evening breeze is cool, but he's drenched with sweat. Dharmash refuses to keep to any kind of rhythm, gliding his fist along Erikur's length in unpredictable patterns, occasionally teasing the head or speeding up his strokes, but it's never enough to do more than simply keep him on edge. It's infuriating and agonizing and he does _not_ like it, absolutely does _not_ bite back a whimper when the hand withdraws. _Thank the gods it's over,_ part of him exclaims. _Please don't let it be over,_ the rest of him whispers.

Oil hits his lower back in a liberal stream, making him jump and swear low under his breath. It's cold as it trickles down his ass and thighs, and almost unpleasantly sticky - and then the hand is back, calloused fingers skimming up his thigh to briefly cup his balls, making him twitch, and then higher still, to -

_Oh._

It should hurt more than it does. Dharmash isn't exactly gentle, but Erikur is so aroused at this point that there's a frisson of pleasure at the end of each rough, unhurried thrust, and in the deliberate way those thick digits twist inside him, probing for the spot that makes him shudder and see brief flashes of white behind his eyelids. He _wants_ it to hurt more than it does. This shouldn't feel good. What happened to those claws? He shouldn't find his hips arching upward into each thrust, as if compelled by forces outside of his control, wanting to feel something, anything more than the little bit he's being granted. And then the fingers are gone and the unmistakable jingle and scrape of leather and buckles being undone breaks the silence.

"Please," Erikur gasps (no, no, _says_ , he would never _gasp_ like some virginal kitchen wench). Whether he's asking for his captor to stop or continue at this point, he doesn't know.

"Such manners." Something blunt and unyielding presses against him, making him blanch - he's heard stories, rumors that Khajiit anatomy is... _distinct,_ and visions of barbs rending his flesh cartwheel through his mind in a sickening array. He tries to break free once more, this time with renewed vigor, and receives a smack upside the head in response that has him seeing stars. "Relax, Thane." _Or else,_ appears to be the unspoken threat.

Faced with no other choice, Erikur relaxes.

This time, the pain is brighter, more clearly defined, but he refuses to wince, or otherwise do anything to give the bastard even the slightest measure of satisfaction. At least the barbs appear to be a myth, which is one point in his favor. But as Dharmash presses closer, goes a little deeper with each shallow cant of his hips, Erikur's traitor cock, which had softened a bit due to fear, hardens once more. He's always liked a little edge, a little suffering mixed with his pleasure, but not like this - it's too uncontrolled, too _real._ And yet, here they are.

Just then, Dharmash shifts his stance and does something with his next thrust that has Erikur seeing stars of a much more pleasant variety. Something not unlike a moan escapes his lips, and he curses the cat, Delvin Mallory, Captain Volf, and everyone else he can possibly think of who got him involved in this mess in the first place. Dharmash, smug git that he is, chuckles low in his ear, razor-tipped fingers digging into Erikur's hips as he shoves one leather-clad knee between his thighs, forcing his legs even further apart.

"Feels good, no?" The question is, of course, rhetorical. "This one wonders what all of your fine friends would say now, to see the proud Thane of Solitude naked, taking a commoner's cock like some back-alley whore."

Erikur swears, and it bleeds into another moan. He's hard as iron and dripping wet, cock curving upwards to leave little smears of pre-cum on the underside of the table. Stains only he'll know are there. That shouldn't turn him on like this, shouldn't make him even wetter, but it does. He hates it. His body disagrees.

Dharmash sets about fucking him in earnest then, and refuses to touch him in the one place he would actually like to be touched. He'd already suspected that he wouldn't be allowed to come, but he'd still hoped, in some unacknowledged corner of his mind. The way Dharmash ruts, ruthless and methodical all at once, suggests not. He presses Erikur into the table and sinks into him over and over again, taking him apart piece by piece and claiming each one in turn.

This is no hasty fumble with one of the palace serving girls, as most of his encounters in recent years have been. This is deliberate and uncaring and utterly debasing, the way he's been reduced to nothing more than a vessel for a thief's whims. Being used like this shouldn't make him ache, shouldn't make him choke back the most undignified noises he'd never thought himself capable of making; it shouldn't have him rocking back with each thrust, searching blindly, shaking with exertion and something much more humiliating -

"Look at you," Dharmash purrs, grinding into him. There is so much in that simple statement. _Look at you,_ the beast taunts. _Your weakness. Your cowardice. Your_ **_need_** _on display._ _All of it laid bare for the taking._ It's despicable. It's revolting and enraging and _wrong,_ and he's so hard he could probably cut glass. As if on cue, the hand on his hip slides around to brush against his swollen cock. "Tell the truth, Thane. Do you want to come?"

Erikur contemplates the merits of remaining silent, or better yet, outright rejecting the offer (as much as one can contemplate anything while on the receiving end of the world's most soul-compromising fuck). Is it really worth it? An orgasm in exchange for what's left of his pride?

"This is the only time Dharmash will ask," his captor adds, sounding entirely unconcerned, and the last remaining shreds of Erikur's dignity dissolve in a rush that's equal parts lust and dread.

"Yes, fine, _yes_ ," he grits through clenched teeth, pressing his overheated cheek to the cool, polished wood beneath him. "Is that what you want to hear?"

"No," Dharmash says, and nips at the back of his neck. "This one thinks you can do better than that."

Erikur wants to hit him. He wants to rip out the cat's throat with his teeth, to unleash a rage almost too potent to contain, and the gods help anyone who gets in his way.

But he can't.

There is nothing he can do, and with that singular realization, all remaining pretense, all bluster is simply stripped away, and what's left is but a man - a weak man without his sphere of influence, made desperate without title or gold, aching for release at the hands of a creature he loathes. He could continue to fight, but what's the point? In the end, the thief will finish taking what he wants, so why not get something out of it while he still can?

(Sometimes pragmatism outweighs pride, particularly when the stakes are high.)

"Please," he whispers, screwing his eyes shut tight, as if he can hide from the shame that floods him by doing so. "Let me... let me come."

"Again," Dharmash hisses, sibilant in triumph. "Louder."

" _Please._ " It comes out as a moan, voice cracking on the last syllable. "I want to come."

He can't see it, but he feels Dharmash smile.

Dharmash stills, and for one gut-wrenching second, he thinks that perhaps it was all an elaborate hoax, that he might be refused and left in anguish. _He wouldn't dare_ , he thinks, knowing full well that he's lying to himself. But then that callused hand grips him, and he nearly weeps with relief as he is finally, properly touched once more.

"Go on, then," Dharmash murmurs, so softly that Erikur has to strain to hear him, "come for me, _Erikur_ " - 

he'll never admit it, but it's hearing his name uttered in such a fashion, without title or pomp, a cruel parody of how a lover might say it, that tips him over the edge, along with those last few rough strokes -

and then he's gone, moaning helplessly and bucking his hips as it crashes over him all at once. It's too good, it shouldn't be _this_ good and he's lost, adrift in a sea of pure sensation. He's dimly aware that his arm has been released, and some part of him thinks that he should really be trying to struggle now, but he can't move. Instead, he clings brokenly to the table, unable to do anything but whimper as Dharmash snaps his hips forward and presses close, comes deep and hot in him.

It should disgust him, but he's beyond that now, beyond anything except the aftershocks of pleasure coursing through him. It trickles down his thigh when Dharmash pulls out, breathing heavily. There's the now-familiar sound of leather and buckles jingling, and then Dharmash pats him condescendingly on the ass.

"Clean yourself up, Erikur. You're disgusting."

With that, he's gone, as if he were never there to begin with, leaving Erikur slumped over his dining room table, sticky with the unpleasant mix of oil, come and sweat. 

But he's never really gone.

He's there whenever Erikur hears an unfamiliar sound, or the window with the loose frame in his bedroom rattles on particularly windy evenings. He's there whenever a shadow moves in just the wrong way, or when Melaran has to shake him awake from nightmares that have only grown more vivid with his most recent string of failures. The scents of leather, oil, and pine give him a headache now, and even more appallingly, make his cock twitch at the same time, unbidden.

And above all, he can no longer touch himself, even just to relieve boredom or stress, without hearing that deep, mocking purr in his ear - _that's right, Erikur, touch yourself and think of Dharmash, think of how he made you feel, how he felt inside of you, come for him, clean yourself up, you're disgusting..._ And every time he swears he'll stop, just until he can get the creature out of his head, he inevitably finds himself face-down on his bed later that night, rutting into his own hand and biting his forearm to stifle his wordless pleas to no one until he comes.

And so it goes, day in and day out, as the rumors in the city grow, weaving themselves in a fine web that threatens to ensnare him even further.  _What's going on? Oh, come on, haven't you heard? Woke up last night and my door was unlocked, could have sworn I latched it... Went into my safe the other day and my grandmother's ring was gone, I haven't touched it in months... Bumped into a fella on my way to the tavern the other week, and when I finally thought to check, my coinpurse was empty... It's true, isn't it? The Thieves Guild is back. Guess they have friends in high places._

He doesn't sleep much these days.

He's waiting.


End file.
